


Sensation

by Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)



Series: Kindling [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Frottage, Naked Female Clothed Male, POV Male Character, POV Third Person, Podfic Welcome, Smut, Smut and Feels, The Helmet Stays On, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 02:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22008088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/pseuds/Primarybufferpanel
Summary: The Mando-point-of-view companion piece toInspirationHe slowly leans forward, gets into her space. Keeps his eyes fixed on hers until he hears her breath catch.He doesn't look away while he slowly, deliberately pulls off his gloves and drops them on the deck. Her mouth goes slack, a breath gusting out of her, and she makes the softest, sweetest noise of surrender in the back of her throat. Oh that is a heady kind of power, bringing her under his spell so easily. Heat blazes up in his belly at the realisation that her eyes are glazed over."Why don't you go… put that away," he suggests, nodding at her embroidery. "And come back up wearing what you'd like to be wearing when you sit on my lap."
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Kindling [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584163
Comments: 92
Kudos: 511





	1. Chapter 1

Silken is a shithole, and that's putting it mildly. 

It's not the planet's fault, to be fair. In fact the opposite: workable circadian rhythm, temperate oceanic climate around the equator. Food actually grows there. Pretty damn ideal for humans, really. There's the giant slugs that gave the place its name, but you can deal with that if you have good fences and tall boots. Overall it's pretty habitable, more than almost anywhere else this far out. 

It's out in Wild Space, but not so deep it's inaccessible with a good ship—or a bad ship and a lot of guts. 

But because of its remote location and pleasant climate it's the kind of place where people wash up when the ground has gotten too hot for them literally anywhere else, and it's been like that forever. So the established societies there now, with their Kings and Grand Ministers, are really just the mob boss scum, the criminal generals and the vanquished fascists that landed a couple generations ago. And the heavily armed invaders of today will probably be the next Kings. 

Except Ghrikk Evoros, because his puck got picked up by one of the very few bounty hunters willing to venture out to Silken, and he is about to get lifted. 

At least, that was the  _ plan _ , Din Djarin reminds himself. It turns out that Ghrikk has amassed supporters faster than he'd anticipated, and also has claimed himself a compound complete with, judging by the direction of the tracker, an underground tunnel system. 

He crashes through a random blast-proof door before Ghrikk's people can pin him down, locking it behind him. The HUD of his helmet notifies him immediately of a life sign in the room, and he spins around, blaster ready, to find a woman backing into one of the corners. She has a mass of brown curls tied back, but he mostly registers huge, scared brown eyes and raised hands. 

She has a device in her hand that on second glance isn't a weapon, but some type of medical device.

"Ghrikk Evoros," he snaps. "Where is Ghrikk Evoros?! How do I get into the tunnels?"

She draws breath to speak, but it comes out in a soundless stutter, her eyes fixed on his blaster. He lowers it a little.

"I won't hurt you if you help me," he assures her. "I only want him."

Glancing around, this seems to be a clinic. 

In the core, med droids are all the rage. Here on the Outer Rim—and further out—they still prefer people with medical training. They don't require complicated maintenance and are much better at improvising in less than ideal circumstances. 

There's a back exit in this room, which will at least keep him moving, though he's completely lost track of Ghrikk now. He may need to exfil, go talk to the other local faction first, see if he can mobilise an attack on this compound and snatch the boss in the chaos. 

"You're here for the boss?" the woman interrupts his strategy musing. He snaps back around to face her, and she flinches a little, her lowering hands flying back up defensively. 

"He is wanted for innumerable counts of piracy," he says, though so far nobody has cared in the slightest. Silken is not a place where piracy speaks against somebody's character. 

She huffs a wry breath. 

"Believe me, I know. He's probably down in the bunker."

She doesn't sound like she's only telling him out of fear, now. 

"Where's the entrance? How do I get in?"

Her eyes flick to a cupboard across the room. 

"It's voice verification." 

Fuck. Blasting through doors is going to draw half the compound onto his head.

The woman eyes him for a beat and then seems to come to a decision.

"If you're going to kill that slimy fucker, I'll  _ get  _ you in."

He blinks at her, but she seems utterly serious. Unexpected, but he'll gladly take it. Fear of him apparently completely gone, she grabs a well-stocked medical bag and a bleached overtunic that might be her outer uniform. 

"The clinic has its own entrance hatch. I'm a kidnapping target, so I'm expected to go down there in an attack." She nods her head toward the heavily reinforced outer door and the noise still going on out there. "Just walk as quietly as you can."

The hatch is in a fake cupboard, and she pauses to whisper something that sounds like 'Yalamedic' into the locking system before the hatch slides up. It's low enough that he has to be careful not to knock his armour on anything, but it opens up into a person-sized downward spiral passage. She slows down to speak to him in a low tone as they descend.

"This is a back entrance. There's two rooms down there, Ghrikk is usually in the near one. I don't think there's many people down there right now, but I can't be sure. If more come in, it'll be on the far side."

"Open the door for me," he says, "you stay back in the tunnel. Close the door if there's shooting." He's going to feel like a proper shitheel if he gets his unexpected helper killed in a crossfire. 

For a second he considers arming her, but she's a medic, who knows if she can even shoot? And if this goes bad he'd rather she could claim that he forced her to let him into the bunker. If she's seen helping him that is moot. 

The capture goes smoothly enough; Ghrikk is the only one armed in the bunker, and not a very impressive fighter. He's clearly had others to do the dirty work for him. It takes Din less than sixty seconds to have the big man prone on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back. There's an inner room, some kind of office, and he locks the remaining people in there.

That's the last of the good news; he ends up having to shoot his way out, trailed by the woman leading a cursing Ghrikk. Not only is she clearly unhappy to have to touch her boss, she had to leave her kit bag behind to have her hands free. Judging by his occasional increased cursing volume, she's not shy about communicating her displeasure via pressure points. 

Din finds a speeder that's not too slug-logged and shoves a cursing Ghrikk into the back. He would happily shoot the man right now, the bounty will be the same, but dragging his corpse around will be even more annoying. After the bounty is loaded up, he looks back at the woman who so unexpectedly helped him. Her eyes are huge, the steely conviction of before, when she got him down into the tunnels and helped get him into the inner bunker, worn off during the firefight. 

He wonders if she's only now realising she blew up her life in the most dramatic way possible, and can't stay here. He'll have to take her offworld if she has any chance of survival, and he finds he is fine with that; one good turn deserves another.

"What are you waiting for?" he asks, climbing in. "Get in. We have to get out of here."

She looks shocked somehow, as if she was expecting him to just leave her there, but she shakes herself into motion and climbs into the speeder. 

They get chased. No surprise there. Din moves over so the woman can take the controls—the Razor Crest is already visible in the distance—while he takes potshots at their pursuers with his amban rifle. 

He manages to clear enough of them that they have a gap to haul Ghrikk up the ramp. The big man is as uncooperative as can be, and it takes both of them manhandling him, plus the woman delivering what looks like a long anticipated knee to the crotch, to get him into position in the carbonite freezer. His face is still contorted in a curse as he stills. At least they don't have to worry about him anymore. Good thing, because the speeder bikes are about to come into range. 

Din had already started the Razor Crest's warmup sequence from his vambrace.

Then he realises the woman is halfway up the ramp, worriedly looking at the outer hull. 

"Hey, come on!"

She turns to him. "G-got slugs all-all over," she gets out, gesturing to the outside of the ship. 

"They'll freeze off!" As long as they haven't covered the air intake. Then something much more disgusting will happen, but he's willing to take that chance over being a sitting duck for armed people on speeder bikes. The woman—Yala, if Ghirkk's curses were to be believed—still doesn't move. Din goes to her; she needs to get off the ramp one way or another. There was a time he'd have shoved her off and not thought twice about it, but he is no longer that man. 

"Do you want to stay here?" he shouts over the rising whine of the approaching speeder bikes, wrapping his fingers around her upper arm. It wasn't his intention to abduct her, but he's not liking her chances of survival if she doesn't get into his ship. 

She doesn't exactly answer, but her wild-eyed look prompts him to pull her up the ramp and hit the closing button, which starts the next step in the ship's automatic takeoff sequence. She stops to stare at the now frozen Ghrikk Evoros, and he leaves her to it while he scrambles up the ladder to the cockpit to get them in the air. 

She follows him in a short time later, when he's just identified the sucking plop sounds on the hull as slugs getting frozen off in the upper atmosphere. The engine seems fine, so good news about the air intake. 

"Do you want back down?" he asks the woman, just to make sure he's not abducting her. It was her choice to help him, but who knows if she foresaw the consequences at the time. Maybe she has a family down there, maybe there's even children waiting for mama to come home. He couldn't do that.

"The compound is too hot, but I could put you down somewhere else if you have people to get back to."

"W-what?" her teeth are chattering. The adrenaline comedown must be rough. "No, I-I've been-n trying to, to, leave that c-c-crappy dirtball for years. Ghrikk controlled access t-to, to the spaceport."

He hums in acknowledgement and gets them on course to the Rseik sector. 

She sits down gingerly on one of the extra chairs and does some slow, deliberate breathing.

"Thank you," she finally says, when she seems to have herself under control. "I was afraid I'd never get out of there."

It prompts an oddly warm swell in his chest. Not only caught his bounty but rescued somebody as well. Not a bad day. He's not sure if anybody has ever thanked him before for barging in and kicking their life upside down. 

They'll figure out later where she wants to go.


	2. Chapter 2

Nobody is more surprised than he is when it turns out he's not in a hurry to get her offloaded. 

First it's that his next planet is Utapau, and she doesn't deserve to be dropped into that hellish climate. She helped him on Silken, making her own life there impossible in the process. She deserves a chance at building a new life somewhere, which means at least some civilisation and a survivable climate. A decent spaceport and access to a long-haul trade route would be even better; she's mentioned that she was a medic on a freighter when Ghrikk Evoros captured the ship, which is how she got stuck on Silken in the first place. 

He hasn't had anybody this intensely in his space in almost two decades, and it's not as uncomfortable as he'd feared. He cleared out the cargo rack next to his own sleeping nook and with a makeshift curtain it works okay as a bed for her. Their sleeping times only partially overlap, giving him some welcome privacy to eat. Her presence forces him to wear his helmet far more than he prefers, but she seems almost instinctively good at respecting personal space and time, and always announces herself before she goes into a space if he's been alone a while. If she used to work on long-haul freighters, where personal space in crew quarters is at a premium, that sort of makes sense. 

She stopped flinching around him soon enough, and seems considerably more at ease after she found an old piece of tarp to drape over the carbon slab that contains Ghrikk. She's comfortable on ships, doesn't seem phased by the cramped 'fresher or the ration bar meals. Carries herself self-contained and balanced, unbothered when the Razor Crest banks or shocks. 

She does still seem intimidated by him. Is very careful about not intruding on his space . Tends to glance at his faceplate only briefly before looking away, and backs away just a little too fast when he approaches. She doesn't talk much unless he speaks first, apparently concerned that it bothers him, and he can tell that's not her usual manner. 

Intimidating people with your appearance is part and parcel of wearing the armour and helmet, and often very useful when he's tracking a bounty. He's seen it in countless faces, but he's not enjoying it on her; it's too close to the skittish way she was around Ghrikk. Some fellow Mandalorians can employ a gregarious nature to offset the blankness of their visor, but that's not a talent Din has ever possessed. 

This is the first time that he wishes he did. He likes her voice, the lively cadence and lilt of it, and her wry observations about Silken suggest a sharp, pragmatic mind and a good sense of humour. Anybody who wants to have a conversation with him has to be, as Greef Karga once noted, prepared to do a minimum of three-quarters of the talking, and she's clearly not aware that his lack of conversation skills don't mean that he wants her to be quiet. 

A shame. He quite likes sitting with her in the cockpit, both leaning back and watching the star trails through the viewport, listening to her voice. 

Then he hears her dream. 

It's a few hours into her sleep cycle, and nearing the time for his. He's just had a meal, including some of the fruit she bought in the marketplace of the last planet they briefly visited. His helmet is still off, but he slips it on when trying to make sense of the soft noises he hears from the main compartiment. The ship is quiet, and with the filtering of the helmet he can identify her moans and heavy breathing. 

At first he assumes a nightmare, but then she whispers 'That feels so _good_ ' and _oh_ —Oh, that's...that's happening. 

Din has always been solitary, and his intimate encounters with women are few and far between. The women he would like to get close to would not be satisfied with the limits his creed and oaths dictate. And the women who'd have no problem with those aren't generally people he's interested in. The rare exceptions are fellow Mandalorians, and he spends very little time in the covert where he might meet those. 

In short, Din's usual release is aided by his hand and his imagination, and this woman's breathy moans have him immediately, _urgently_ hard in his heavy canvas trousers. He's not going to do anything about that right now, that feels wrong, but knowing that this could fuel his imagination for some time to come, he listens with attention. 

Then he freezes, because he's pretty sure that what she just moaned was his name. Or rather, not his name but _Mando_ . Is she dreaming about _him_? 

"Oh, gods, please touch me," she sighs, and his hands clench involuntarily into fists. "Please, mmm, please, Mando, I need...ohhhh-OHH—"

Her loud moan cuts off abruptly, and he hears her move, breathing rapidly. She's woken herself up, and now she seems to be getting up—he's very glad he didn't turn around to face the doorway, or his interest would be immediately obvious even through the heavy layers of his under-armour. 

The woman—Yala, he reminds himself— comes up the ladder, still breathing hard, and he turns just enough that he can look at her over his shoulder. Gods, she looks—very flushed and very appealing, soft brown curls loose around her face, a thin undertunic and loose shorts the only things covering her. Her feet are bare, and he doesn't know why that makes his breath hitch, delicate toes pale and vulnerable on the metal deck where normally are only clunky boots. 

"Sorry. Dream," she says, grimacing. There's no doubt that she knows he heard. Din isn't sure what he's supposed to do here. He can't exactly deny it, he couldn't _not_ have heard. He wants to put her at ease, but he also has a wicked urge to acknowledge the dream. 

She fills a cup of water from the dispenser and gulps it down, and he turns the chair around to face her.

"Come here," he says softly, seeing her shiver and flush even deeper. To his surprise, she walks over to him. He wonders if it's as visible to her that he's hard as it feels to him. She is trembling with tension, but somehow, unmistakably, also excitement. 

He hasn't looked at her in this light before, with the speculative turn about what she might look without her clothes, what it might feel like to touch her. Her nipples are hard, straining against the thin fabric that covers them. 

"I heard you," he says.

She apologises weakly, and he shakes his head. 

"No. Don't apologise. It was…" he casts about for something that doesn't make him sound like he's expecting something from her, and settles on "...inspiring."

Why that should surprise her, he doesn't know, but she seems intrigued by the notion rather than uncomfortable, so he continues, lightly, lightly. 

"Do you want to know what I pictured?" 

She shuffles, glances at him and then away, indecisive.

"Are you— going to tell me?"

He chuckles at the way there's a hopeful little rise in those hesitant words. She's swaying slightly on her bare feet, forward and then back, as if her body can't decide if she wants to be closer to him or run away. 

He offers his hand, wondering if it will invite or scare her off. 

"Or I could show you."

She smiles, a sweet curl of her lips, and he is _fucked_. 

She settles on his thigh with a tiny wiggle, like it's a seat she's testing for comfort and finding it satisfactory. Din's hands twitch with the urge to immediately pull her fully onto his lap, wanting her weight on him, wanting to feel her settle in there. He takes a slow, deliberate breath and forces himself to slow down. One thing at a time. Having her right here to touch is already a lot. 

He slides his hand up her arm, along her shoulder, feeling her with gentle squeezes. 

He very quickly grows annoyed with his gloves and takes them off, and she is so soft, he gets a little bit lost in just… touching her, her skin, her hair. Listening to the tiny noises she makes low in her throat, feeling the way she leans into his touch. He gathers her hair to feel the mass of it and she moans in a way that makes his face heat in the confines of his helmet, which leads to his discovery that apparently it feels good to have your hair pulled. Or it does to her, he has no idea about himself and isn't likely to ever find out. 

It's a heady thing, feeling her tremble and sigh and surrender, allowing him to pull her off balance, to hold her there breathless and trembling while he kneads her breasts and draws whimpers out of her. All that power over her so willingly put into his hands.

This in itself is already such a sensory overload that he doesn't even think about how else he could touch her until she asks what he'd imagined. That seems like a pretty clear invitation to put her astride his lap, facing away from him, and _fuck_ , she fits there so well, she feels so good, it makes his breath hitch. 

The only thing that could make it better is feeling her skin under his fingertips. She doesn't seem to mind losing her tunic. 

_Gods,_ her skin is so fucking soft under his hands, he could probably touch her like this for hours, just letting his hands stroke and pet and knead and tease. Would she beg, eventually, for more? Squirm in his lap? Grab his hand and direct it where she wants it? His hard length, ignored until now, pulses with the thought of that, of holding her needy and desperate, keeping her still by the hair and telling her, low and intimate by her ear, that he will take his sweet damn time. He imagines the sounds she might make in her frustration. _Fuck_.

"You going to be thinking about this later?" Her voice shakes when he traces his fingertips over her belly, lower and lower, on an inexorable path to where they both want his hand. He groans when he finds just how slick her folds are.

Is he going to be thinking about this _later_ ? Fuck, he's pretty sure he's going to be thinking about this for _years_ , he's going to still be trying to summon the feeling of her warm weight in his lap and her soft slick heat on his fingertips in a _decade_. 

His fingers slip into the tight, wet heat of her.

"At length," he finally answers with more honesty than he'd intended, "and in _great_ detail."

He curls his fingers and her hips rock against him, and suffering Gods—how does that take him by surprise? Somehow he's thought about this moment, about his actions, as if he were making a memory to hold on to, something to hold in reserve, to tuck away somewhere deep inside and savour later. Not something to experience right now. Her ass rocking against his erection is abruptly changing that and sending him spiraling. 

And when she says that she might want to _listen_ to him—the thought of getting himself off and knowing she would hear him, knowing it would be exciting her— _fuck_. He presses his face against her shoulder, curling his fingers inside of her, feeling her body tense, focusing on getting her there. Then suddenly she grabs his hand and sucks his forefinger into her hot, hot mouth and fuckfuckFUCK—

The ringing sound in his ears fades only slowly, and he's aware that both of them are panting as if they ran a mile. His visor is fogged up, the fans working overtime to clear it. Din came in his underwear, which will need dealing with, but he can't care about that right now. The woman is still in his lap, a warm, pliant weight he isn't ready to let go of. She doesn't seem to object when he moves her around to a more comfortable position and wraps his cloak around her to shield her from the chill air. 

At some point soon they'll need to get up and figure out how to act about this, but he's quite willing to put it off as long as she is. 


	3. Chapter 3

She buys him a piece of hollow tube.

They stop on a remote desert outpost on Carva Yag, a place that holds no other appeal than the most minor of his bounties. Once he knew he'd be going all the way to Silken, he'd claimed every puck for the nearby systems, no matter how low the reward. This one he picked up for the debatably low price of a 19 hour slog through desert dust, under two suns that made his armour scalding hot to the touch and one of his helmet fans burn out.

He sits down on the edge of his bed harder than intended, too weary and overheated to control his descent. His head is pounding. 19 hours in the desert had been about 9 more than he'd prepared for.

He's already reaching up to take off his helmet when she comes down from the cockpit, and he hurriedly drops his hands.

She gives him a cup of water with a… he examines it quizzically.

"It's so you can, so you can drink something. Without leaving the room. Or waiting for me to—" she turns away with a vague 'you know' gesture, as if she's suddenly not sure if she's overstepped.

Din stares down at the simple piece of stiff tubing. Come to think of it, it _has_ been annoying to have to plan even something as basic as drinking water around when he can take his helmet off. It just hadn't occurred to him that the solution could be so simple, and he certainly never would have expected somebody else to care enough to think of it. There's a surge of, of _something_ in his chest, and he uses it to take a blessedly refreshing sip from the cup.

"Thank you," he says belatedledly. "That was thoughtful."

The woman climbs back up to the cockpit, shooting a relieved little smile over her shoulder.

He joins her once he's changed and repaired the helmet. The headache is subsiding now he's rehydrating.

Turns out she also bought food at the market, some type of bread with a sweet bean paste filling, leagues ahead of the usual ration bars. He's reassured her that he doesn't mind her eating in front of him—in fact rather likes it. Shared meals are, for obvious reasons, not a part of Mandalorian culture. Even though he's not eating at the same time, only sipping a cup of water , keeping her company at the little foldout table while she eats tugs at something in his gut that he doesn't want to dig into too hard.

She leaves to go shower while he eats.

It's taken effort to concentrate today, everything from last night still clamouring so freshly in his mind, his body feeling the ghost of touch. They haven't talked about it. He wants to do it again, or something else, _something_ , his skin feels too tight just thinking about it. He's just not really sure how he could initiate in a way that won't feel like it's the price he expects for her passage.

She comes back up to the cockpit to put a salve on her sunburnt skin, languidly rubbing it into the column of her neck, which looks vulnerable and entrancing with her hair twisted up. He watches her fingers rub the skin of her collarbones, a little under the neckline of her tunic and the delicate skin of her throat… his mouth goes dry. He doesn't want to assume, but she doesn't seem to object to him watching her do it.

"I'm going to turn in early," he decides. He's put the Razor Crest in a stable orbit for the night, so he can take the time to either sleep, or… or. Who knows. Yala might either stay up in the cockpit for a while longer, or get into bed too.

She does the latter, and he clenches and unclenches his hands with anticipation and hope that this… that it might mean something. When she calls that she's in bed, he heads down to make ready.

"You know," he hears her dry voice when he starts to get out of his gear, "it really is entirely unfair that just the sound of you taking off your gloves is doing things to me now."

He needs to know a lot more about that.

"And what _kind_ of things is that sound doing to you?"

He's flirting, he realises abruptly, hearing the tone of his own voice. This is flirting. Not something he is particularly practised in, but they seem to play off each other just fine.

"Made my heart pound just now," she admits, and oh, there's _more_ , there _has_ to be more than that, and he wants to know _everything_.

"...and?" he prompts with a smile.

His heartbeat kicks into doubletime when her answer finally comes, whispered like it's a secret.

"...made my thighs clench together…"

He hums in satisfaction and pleasure, remembering how powerful her thighs had felt around his hand last night when she came.

Din makes short work of the rest of his gear, and has an unusually hasty shower to wash off the desert dust. He's already half hard just at thinking about what they might do later. Is it strange to go from touching to, well, not touching? Perhaps, but being able to be undressed and touch himself will make up for it. And somehow it still blows his mind that not only can his touch pleasure her, but she is aroused just by listening to him.

He gets into a set of his longsleeved baselayer and pants and hopes he's not taken so long she's fallen asleep.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, soft and low right by her closed curtain. Her little yelp makes him chuckle. Definitely not asleep.

"Um, about your hands," she says, breathless and entirely unconvincing.

"I was thinking about how I should have applied that skin balm for you," he says once he's settled into his own bed. "Though I might not have stopped at the sunburnt skin."

"That—" her voice sounds a little strained, as if her mouth has gone dry. "That doesn't sound like a problem, so much."

 _Fuck_ it feels good to slip his hand down the front of his sleep pants and finally wrap his hand around his erection. His mind is still on the thought of rubbing the slippery salve into her skin, long passes down her back, the enticing curves of her waist and hips, smoothing it down to where he can knead her ass, her thighs, everything as slick and hot as her folds had been around his fingertips...

Fuck, he's not going to last long like this. "...getting all that soft skin all slick and wet…"

"Some of me doesn't exactly, uh…" she hesitates, and the hint of shyness makes heat swell in his chest, "need the balm to get like that."

As if he could possibly have forgotten that.

"Oh, I remember that, trust me…"

She puts the jar of salve right outside his curtain, reminding him acutely that she is _right there_ , not some fantasy he's conjured but an actual person separated from him only by a thin metal bulkhead plate. An actual person who is, from the sounds of her, as aroused by this as he is. He tries to picture her, laying back on the makeshift bed, knees spread. Hand between her legs, he hopes.

The jar is a little slippery on the outside, and he spends an undignified flash of a moment thinking about smelling it, just in case—No, it's probably just the salve, which makes him think about _her_ hands all slippery and touching him. He can't remember the last time he took so much time to indulge himself like this, if ever. Masturbation is usually a fairly utilitarian process for him, a way to make his body unwind so he can sleep. He pushes the waistband of his sleep pants down to below his balls, exposing himself to the cool air. Going by the sound that comes out of his mouth when he touches himself with his salve-slick hand, never experimenting with lubricant was an oversight.

 _Fuck_ that feels good. He's suddenly desperate to know that she is playing with herself too, desperate to hear her, because he is hurtling toward a precipice and if he can't touch her, he needs to hear that she is right there with him.

"Are you touching yourself?" he asks, barely recognising his own voice.

"I got distracted by listening to you," she admits, a little shy, and _fuck_ he is so hopelessly charmed by her.

"You made such _good_ noises yesterday," he says. "Make some more for me."

She rises to the challenge.

"Fuck, your fingers felt so good yesterday," she begins, and he thinks he can hear her hand move, a faint, wet rhythm he subconsciously matches his strokes to. "So strong and sure, mm… I spent _far_ too much time today fantasising about sitting on your lap. It was very distracting."

Fuck. Seriously? While they were sitting next to each other in the cockpit? Good thing he hadn't known at the time. This is not promising for his ability to focus on navigation whenever she sits in the cockpit with him.

"Did you think about it too?" she asks slyly.

"Yeah," he finally says, voice low and rough. "Thought about it."

She paints the picture for him: taking off his gloves, steering her to sit in his lap by her hair, the warm press of her against his erection. He pictures the way her long, delicate neck would be bared and how much he wants to press his mouth to her pulse point, feel her blood pound against his lips, the sounds she might make when he did—

Din reins back his thoughts to things that don't go against the Creed; it's no use giving himself dissatisfaction with the limits of what he can have. This, right now, is happening and he means to enjoy it as fully as humanly possible.

She talks about sitting in his lap facing him, and that sounds even better, her legs wrapped around him, her whole sensitive back within reach for him to stroke and scratch and touch, the way he could make her shiver and moan and melt, the way he could put his hands on her hips to rock her against him. The way she might climax like that, curling into him, her legs tightening around his hips like a vice. His hand speeds up, glistening with lubricant, and his hips have begun to twitch up into his hand without his input.

"Did you taste your fingers?" she asks suddenly, panting, like it's the most important thing in the world, "when you were… mmm.. when you were alone last night?"

" _Yes_ ," he groans, and she makes a desperate, _unbearably_ hot noise. Din has been on the edge for long minutes now, and his head spins as the pleasure overflows, still distantly aware of her urgent moans…

His mind is completely, blissfully blank as he stares up at the bulkhead, catching his breath. He suspects that on her side she's much the same. The urge to go over to her and hold her takes him by complete surprise. Why would—holding her in his lap yesterday had made sense, since she was already there. It would have felt cold and wrong to put her down immediately, as if he had no more use for her. In truth it had been unexpectedly nice to catch their breaths together. But now? Why does his chest feel empty and his hands restless? He rubs them on the outside of his thighs, but that doesn't help.

He doesn't really know why this makes him uneasy. In the unit where he was brought up sex was not a forbidden subject, though he only ever heard it spoken of in the context of 'blowing off steam' or 'getting it out of your system'. Something to be done either with fellow Mandalorians, who understood the Creed and would never tempt you to break it, or prostitutes, who would make no demands.

Nothing he's ever been taught about the Creed or the Way speaks directly against this kind of closeness. And yet it feels like something he's not supposed to do, like something he's not supposed to _want_.

"I liked it when you held me, after," she says suddenly, as if sensing his thoughts.

He takes a deep breath. "I liked it too," he finally says softly, like a confession. It kind of feels like it is.

Din was raised by warriors to be a warrior. Warriors could not afford anything so soft as a comforting embrace, once they were no longer scared children. One who had sworn to the Creed should not want such things, because such softness would surely get him killed.

On the other hand, they're safely in orbit here. What danger is there to it? And it's not anything they didn't already did yesterday. He can't in truth see why he should deny both of them if it's what they both want.

He reluctantly puts the helmet back on, so he can see in the pitch black of the compartment. And—and also because the helmet belongs on his head around another person. While it's pitch black and she can't see him either way, 'never before another living being' doesn't feel like it has exceptions for darkness.

It stands out to him now though, how the helmet makes him feel more distant, more removed from the moment. He can't tell if what he's feeling is disappointment or relief.

He goes to the 'fresher first to clean himself up. When he comes back out, he listens for a long moment to see if she's fallen asleep. Her breathing has slowed, but he hears shifting as if she's messing with her blanket.

She gasps and freezes when he opens her curtain, and he smiles behind his faceplate because the way he intimidates her, he is learning, is apparently very close to what excites her. It's a notion he files away carefully for later consideration.

He'd initially thought to pull her into his lap so he could feel her arms around him, her head against his shoulder. It seems like too much now he's wearing the helmet, too close. Instead he arranges them on the bed with her head across his thigh, so he can stroke her hair. The weight of her head feels good, grounding, and he'll probably never get enough of tracing her soft brown curls.

At some point she steers his hand to her throat, tipping back her head to give him space. He can feel her heartbeat, the soft warm skin, the slight vibration when she hums in pleasure. Her mouth is slack with it. How does she do this, put herself into his hands so easily and without hesitation? Din spends whole months of his life being looked at only with mistrust, fear, or at best, calculating intent. People sometimes watch him warily until he's out of sight.

It makes his breath hitch to be trusted like this, puts something too-tight in his chest.

She finally dozes off with her hand clutched in the bottom hem of his shirt, as if she's trying to stop him from leaving. He stays until he feels himself begin to fall asleep too, his helmet sinking back against the bulkhead with a soft metallic bonk. He slides his hand under her head and gently, gradually, slides out from under her, putting a folded pillow under her head so as not to disturb her. It's a strange kind of satisfaction that she doesn't even stir, an application of his stealth skills that he never would have thought of, and that makes him smile.

On an impulse he couldn't explain if you put a vibroblade to his throat, he slips two fingers under his helmet to press against his lips, and then very lightly brushes them over her forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I've currently got this written all the way to where he drops her off on Suarbi, still working on where to pick up for the 'present day' chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

She has questions, the next morning. It takes a while for her to be brave enough to ask them, as if she's still not completely sure he won't suddenly snap in irritation and space her.

When she finally asks them, he almost wishes he hadn't encouraged her to ask.

"If—if The Way is that Mandalorians never take their helmets off in front of another person, how does that… I mean how does that work in families? Do Mandalorian children grow up without seeing the faces of their parents?"

It's a painful reminder of how much of Mandalore has been lost, destroyed, scattered throughout the galaxy. That he only ever got to experience a fraction of his adopted culture; when they found him, life was destabilised everywhere and war was already an inevitability. Teaching the warrior Way so that foundlings had a hope of surviving was more important than anything else.

"I was a foundling," he finally says, "they took me in and cared for me when I was eight years old. They made me part of their clan and showed me the Way, and when I was of the age, I put on my helmet."

Swore the Creed, but that included the helmet, and he isn't in the mood for any questions about the Creed.

Her face goes soft and sympathetic, and that makes him strangely uneasy. The Fighting Corps was his aliit, his family. They had rescued him, given him food and shelter and clothes and companionship, given him training, given him a direction.

Most of all, they'd given him armour and taught him to be unafraid.

They'd become his family, and he only wished more of them had survived the Night of a Thousand Tears.

The clan had sent the foundlings and children away to safety, with Din, just 17 years old, Thae, 19, and Paz, 20, as their protectors, and the clan's youngest armourer as their Alor. They'd been tasked with surviving until the rest of the clan could join them.

But nobody ever had.

None of the clan that had stayed behind to ensure they could get away had survived. The second time that people had sacrificed themselves for his survival. He could never blame them for not being the same kind of family his parents had formed with him.

"I do not know if there are any family units left now. Or how they navigated the Way within the privacy of them. A lot has changed."

They're a proud people, and he knows his clan all chafe under the restriction and ignominy of having to hide out in sewer systems, only going out in ones and twos and in similar armours to hide their true numbers.

There are a few members who've paired off, but people are too focused on survival; who would dare to create a baby under these circumstances? And the occasional foundling they take in are all older.

Even if some would have formed family units with born children, he is among the eldest of his group. None now survive—at least of his clan—who knew what life on Mandalore was like before all out war broke out.

She nods, sunken in thought, and he wonders why she is thinking about the helmet and under which circumstances it might be taken off. He's used to curiosity about it, outright intrusiveness even, but she had seemed comfortable with it so far, and very considerate. He noticed that she goes out of her way to not only give him privacy, but to never make him feel like he has to be on guard when he is without the helmet. He hasn't felt like he needs to lock doors before he takes it off. He'd never thought he could be this at ease sharing his ship with an outsider.

"Does it bother you?"

She startles, clearly deep in thoughts, and then takes a moment to think about it. He appreciates that she's careful, deliberate with her words.

"It's… it takes some getting used to," she says slowly.

He hums in acknowledgement.

"Is the—uh, is wearing the armour, is that part of it? All the time?"

It really isn't, he's just used to it, and he would feel uncomfortably exposed sitting here without it in her presence.

"Personal preference," he answers.

"Oh."

He's not sure why that dampens her mood so much. The Beskar is just… part of him. It's what keeps him safe. He still remembers how invulnerable the warriors had seemed to him in their armour, when he was first adopted by the Corps. How much he'd longed to put on such armour himself and feel safe, protected, untouchable by danger.

Youthful ignorance, of course. He'd desperately needed to feel safe and the armour had helped. How very much even beskar couldn't make the Mandalorians invulnerable had later been shown only too clearly.

The woman is bent over her needlecraft, and he turns toward her to study the fine little shapes she is creating on the collars of her new shirts. Conversation is over, apparently, and he finds he wasn't ready for it to be over.

"See, this is the problem," she says with a quick, uneasy glance at him, then down at her hands. "Unless you say something, I have no idea if you're smiling or glaring at me right now."

"Hmm." Or just deep in thought and not really looking at her at all. He has to remember that she can't tell the difference. His moods are hidden from her unless he speaks. "That's fair."

He's just.. New to having somebody in his space to this degree, but he's not sure how to say that without making it sound like he wants to offload her as soon as possible.

"I don't… do this. A lot."

He's not even sure what he's referring to. Being around another person for longer than the job requires. Talking.

Touching.

"It's overwhelming. Touching you."

She nods.

"The helmet stays on, because that—that is what it means to be a Mandalorian. And if I—went looking for loopholes, like darkness, or blindfolds, just because this particular tenet of the Creed did not suit me right now, what would—what meaning would any of it have?"

She sucks in a quick breath, and there's anxiety in her voice when she rushes to assure him she isn't trying to get him to take it off. "I can understand that. I never wanted for you to—"

"I know," he agrees. "I want you to—I want you to understand. And the armour, it's—it's not about armour. It's about skin."

That is not wholly true, it is also about the armour and how bereft and vulnerable he feels without it. But where it concerns her, it's about skin, and touch, and how much he fears he'd want it if he allowed her, allowed _himself_ , to indulge.

"I liked when you held me, last night," she says. "It was nice to feel _you_ instead of the armour plates."

Oh, that's… that's—he blinks, because apparently she's literally talking about the armour plates. Not about being naked. And it _had_ felt nice to feel her against him, even for the limited touch he'd allowed himself.

"Yes. I liked that too."

"We could—" she takes a deep breath, hesitates. Comes out with it anyway. "We could try how that feels?"

His thoughts go to how nice it had felt to sit with her last night, with her head in his lap, just sleepily stroking her hair. Then, just as fast, they travel to the scenario she'd painted for him in the heat of the moment, sitting in his lap facing him. He is already half hard just thinking about it

"I won't touch you under your clothes," she offers, and yes, this might be all right. He thinks he can work with this.

He slowly leans forward, gets into her space. Keeps his eyes fixed on hers until he hears her breath catch.

He doesn't look away while he slowly, deliberately pulls off his gloves and drops them on the deck. Her mouth goes slack, a breath gusting out of her, and she makes the softest, sweetest noise of surrender in the back of her throat. _Oh_ that is a heady kind of power, bringing her under his spell so easily. Heat blazes up in his belly at the realisation that her eyes are glazed over.

"Why don't you go… put that away," he suggests, nodding at her embroidery. "And come back up wearing what you'd like to be wearing when you sit on my lap."

She swallows thickly, as if her mouth has gone dry, and he feels very pleased with himself. When she doesn't start to move he touches her neck, lightly feeling her pulse. It's gratifyingly fast, and her breath hitches at the light touch of his fingers.

When she's gone out of the cockpit the first thing he does is adjust himself in his trousers before things can get even more uncomfortable.

He removes the armour plates, and then hesitates. The cowl that covers his neck, chin and the back of his head is already uncomfortably warm with the way his body feels right now. That can come off.

Clad like last night, in only his base layers, is certainly going to be too much, too close to nothing. He thinks it would feel good to feel her against his torso, her hands on his back. Yes, that will work—torso down to his base layer, but keeping the heavy canvas trousers on just to maintain a little distance and control. And, if he's honest, dignity.

He scrubs his hands through his hair. Needs a trim at some point soon. Not that it matters, of course, but—well. He takes a long swig of water to dispel that thought, and puts his helmet back on.

What is she doing, down there? Is she spending as much thought on what, if any, clothes she puts on as he hopes? He feels rather pleased with himself for the idea of making her decide, with the explicit knowledge that he will read into her choice. It'll give him some idea of what speed she wants to move at.

After what feels like an eternity, she calls up, and when he confirms that he's ready, he turns the chair fully to face in her direction. His breath hitches to see that she looks like that first time, in the thin shorts and top she sleeps in, her feet bare. She looks sweet and soft with her cheeks flushed, her brown curls loose around her shoulders and her feet bare.

When she climbs into his lap his heart almost pounds out of his chest. The pressure of her on his torso briefly sparks alarm—this is a fighting feeling, all the more alarming without his chestplate, and he's not sure he can process it another way. She can clearly tell, because she holds very still for long moments, giving him time to adjust to the sensation.

"Okay?" she whispers.

He searches for the right words for a long, fruitless moment. How could he possibly explain this?

"Heavy," he settled on finally, and keeps her from making more distance. Chest against chest, feeling her warmth, her breathing—he _wants_ to get used to this. "Stay. It's good."

Din concentrates on the feeling of her cheek against his shoulder, her warm breath brushing the bare skin of his throat. He lightly rubs her back and feels her let out a long breath in relaxation, and that draws his attention abruptly to the fact that her soft breasts are pressed against his chest and just how much sensation transmits through the two thin layers of fabric separating them; the soft round pressure of them, the harder points of her nipples. _Fuck_.

He's a little too overwhelmed to do more than stroke her back and hold her close, so it's a relief when she asks him shyly if he'll squeeze the back of her neck. He would never have thought to do that, but it must feel good, because she sags into him with a low moan, and _fuck_ , he wants to hear that sound again and again.

A repeat combined with a nice handful of her asscheek gives an even better effect, a full body roll and a startled moan.

"That's just _unfair_ ," she mumbles her complaint into his shoulder.

Din chuckles. If unfair lets him have her in his lap like this, surrendering to his whims, he's okay with that.

"Is it? Should I stop?" He gently trails his fingertips over her shorts, further under her behind, finding the edge of that loose garment and very close to the skin he wants to touch.

"I didn't say tha..ahh…"

"Take this off," he says, tugging at the hem of her top. "The shorts too, before I get tempted to tear them off."

She inhales sharply, a deep flush on her cheeks, and scrambles off of him to get naked.

Once he's got her back in his lap he can't help taking his time again, indulging himself by touching all that smooth, sensitive skin. Her back is a canvas, or an instrument, or—the metaphor doesn't matter, he can draw all sorts of wonderful little noises out of her with his fingers, his nails. She squirms a little when he runs his fingertips feather-light along the line of her ribs, and he squeezes the nape of her neck again, making her go still for his exploration.

"So soft…" he lightly rakes the back of his nails along her sides, and she squeaks. "and such fun little noises."

"MandooOO!" she whines, undignified and rising on a yelp.

"Din," he says, before he knew he was going to say it.

"Huh?" It clearly takes her by surprise as much as it did him.

"That's my name. Din," he says, pitching his voice sure and dry. "If you're going to be screaming it, you might as well get it right."

He chuckles at her laughing noise of outrage, and fuck, he had expected this to _feel_ good, but he hadn't thought to expect it to be this kind of _fun_ , to play with her, to laugh with her. It's more wonderful than he could have anticipated.

Running his nails all the way down her spine produces an amazing, undulating body roll. He is suddenly acutely reminded that she is naked and with just a little shift—there, she's pressed against the hard ridge of his cloth-covered erection.

He feels her hot, panting breath on the sweat-damp skin of his throat and fuck—he wants—he wants— he's not even sure but his toes are curling in his boots and his heart is pounding in his chest and his face feels overheated.

"Well, I'm Yala," she breathes against his skin. "Not sure if you remember."

He did sort of remember that, though he doesn't know if he'd used it or not, and he has no time to think on it because then she presses her lips to his neck and—

It's like a fiery trail leads from her touch on his neck to his belly, and he pulls her down while his hips grind his pulsing erection up against her entirely without his brain's input

"...Suffering _Gods_ ," he gasps finally, breathing hard. How the hell can that feel so good? "Save that for later."

To regain his control he focuses the attention back on her, on the hand he slides along and under her thigh, slowly, slowly toward her center. He strokes slowly in the wetness at the crease of her thigh when she takes a deep breath and stills.

Is something wrong? No, he doesn't think so—she isn't frozen, she's trembling with the effort to stay still. He can feel the tiny twitches of her hips.

"Breathe," he advises dryly, fingertips tracing a taunting path back and forth on the slick wet skin right at her entrance. "I hear it's healthy."

"Ghnn—" she grits out, and he slides his free hand up to grab a good handful of hair at her nape, pulls back her head just as he finally pushes his forefinger into her. She breathes out on a gust, her eyes rolling back in her head. "Ssscrew y-you."

Given the way he met her, he's known all along that she's not as meek of character as she's behaved the past couple of days—it's more likely been her survival strategy to remain in his good graces, unnecessary but understandable. This spark of backtalk thrills him.

He moves her head to face him directly, his visor no more than a hand's width from her face.

" _What_ did you just say?" He pitches his voice low and dangerous, still sliding his forefinger in and out of her hot, slick entrance, now and then taking a moment to circle her clit.

"Nggh… _bite_ me," she gasps.

Oh if only he could. He pulls on her hair until her head tips back, staring at the long, vulnerable line of her throat and licking his lips. _Fuck_ but he wants to. Wants to press his nose there, get the fine smell of her skin, of her sweat. The helmet filters air, protecting the wearer from airborne dangers, but that also means he doesn't smell much and it only now occurs to him that he's missing something.

He wants to press his lips there at her throat, mouth her and lick her pulse point and make her moan. Wants to scrape her skin with his teeth, make her tremble and sigh, until he finds exactly the right spot to leave a bitemark. Fuck, he wants it so much his mouth has gone dry with it, and he can't, he _can't_ , he shouldn't even be thinking about this—

"Oh, sweet girl," he says, slipping a second finger into her and curling them. He has his visor pressed against her throat, his voice coming out rough and quiet, "you have _no idea_ how much I want to…"

He turns his hand into a better position and then the beckoning curl of his fingers really seems to hit the spot for her. She's grinding onto his hand, pressing against the hard length of him on every roll of her hips. The hand he still has in her hair dictates her rhythm, just a touch slower than he can feel she wants to go. Her hands are restless on his back. Her whole body is tensing, and he wants to get her there, wants to see it happen.

"Din," she gasps, "I wanna—please, Din, I, I—just—let me—Din, please—"

He pulls her to face him directly. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused with pleasure.

"What? W-what do you need, Yala?" he manages, suddenly closer to orgasm himself than he'd realised. _Fuck_ she feels good. He loves the feeling of her around his fingers, tight and hot and pulsing, the grind of her hips, the way her hands can't seem to stop touching him. It feels good to say her name, too, the way it curls off his tongue.

Her brows knot as she tries to voice what she wants from him.

"Please, can I—" her trembling hand brushes against the side of his neck, and oh, _that_. He releases her hair, pulls her close against him, and she immediately buries her face against his neck.

Moans "Yessss…"

He groans and tilts his head to the side, remembering that unexpected jolt of sensations she had blazed through his body before, expressly inviting her.

She leans up and presses her mouth just under his ear. She swirls her tongue against his skin and sucks gently. He moans low in his throat, and then she _bites—_

The sensations are white-hot and blinding. All the muscles in his lower body contract, his hips rocking _up_ , fuckfuckFUCK—

He can still hear the echoes of his own voice in the cockpit, he can feel himself pulsing in his trousers, and he comes back to himself just in time to feel Yala's legs tighten around him, her hips sink down hard on his fingers and he does his best to keep curling his fingers inside her fluttering, clenching entrance. She muffles her moan against the over-sensitive skin of his neck.

"Screaming suffering _gods_ ," he pants, when they've finally, finally both stilled. He gently extricates his hand from between them and and idly slips it under his helmet to suck clean his fingers. This means that he finally properly gets the scent of her arousal in his nose too, and _fuck_ he's been missing out, he should have done this a lot sooner, she smells and tastes so _good_ , he wishes he could—

No. He can't. What he has is what he can have, and not for much longer. He needs to soak it in, memorise every aspect of it and store it away safely inside, to be brought out and treasured in the future. It doesn't do anybody any good to start wishing now.

They're both sweaty, but the cool air of the cockpit gets to her soon enough. She had the foresight to bring a blanket, so he tucks it carefully around her, making sure her bare feet are covered.

"That was so good," she whispers against his throat. He hums in agreement.

He cups his hand around the back of her head and tucks her under his chin, cradled close against his chest. Their breathing has become attuned, deep and slow, and _oh_ he wishes this could last forever, just this moment, warm and sated and close.

"This is good too," he says softly, some indeterminable time later. Yala murmurs her drowsy agreement and nestles closer.


	5. Chapter 5

She falls asleep, and Din stays awake, not wanting to waste this moment on sleep. Fuck, he wants this to never end, he wants this all the time, he wants—

—he doesn't want to go back to being alone.

It's a chilling realisation, that the thought of being alone on his ship genuinely dismays him now. He's been on his own for well over a decade, only occasionally visiting the covert or teaming up with others, and it's always been a relief to fly away after. This time, he knows, is not going to be a relief. He's going to deliver her to Suarbi and he's going to make sure she's okay there, and then he's going to hate walking away and hate closing the ramp and hate flying away. That's how it will have to be, but it wasn't supposed to be _painful_ to go back to that.

Indulging in all this closeness with her was a trap, not laid by her but by his own desire, and he walked into it willingly. It's not the first trap he's walked into with his eyes open. All he needs to do is work his way back out while taking as little damage as possible.

He barely looks at her the next day, before he heads off to get his bounty. The sight of her soft smile, and how it falls when he looks past her, gives him an uncomfortable squeeze in his insides, and he is not willing to deal with any of this right now.

_Take as little damage as possible._

It's a relief to be hunting, doing something normal with the kind of focus that doesn't leave room for anything else in his mind. His quarry isn't hard to find, but flees into the narrow alleyways of the town, and Din sighs and gives chase. The Caskadag knows the terrain, and his choices are too purposeful to be a coincidence. In any other state of mind Din would have slowed down and tried—well, tried anything other than bluntly charging ahead after the man.

So he only has himself to blame when he ends up in an alley with three of the Caskadag's compatriots doing their level best to take off his head with their long bladed weapons.

He bares his teeth and takes them on. It is more satisfying than he wants to be comfortable with to sink into the fight, to be the kind of brutal and ruthless the Mandalorians are known for. The armour takes some hits, and one heavy overhanded slash nearly takes off his right arm, saved only by the durasteel of his bracer. It only fires him up though, adrenaline pumping through his veins, and he doesn't truly notice how much he's bleeding until he shoots the last one.

Fuck. He tests that he still has use of his fingers and then binds the wound tightly, keeping the strip of cloth in place by buckling the bracer back over it, and hauls the lifeless body of the Caskadag over his shoulder. He's covered it with the man's own cloak as best he can, but let's hope the guy didn't have any more friends around town.

The trek back feels endless, long enough for the adrenaline to wear off. His body starts complaining about the fight, the heavy weight on his shoulders. His arm is throbbing by the time he trudges onto the ramp of the Razor Crest.

He offloads the bounty straight into the carbon freezer and makes his way to the cockpit.

Yala is in the pilot chair, turning to him as he enters. He can feel her gaze as she examines him, the streaks of brown blood and mud on him, the new scratches on his armour. Then she startles into motion and hastily vacates his chair, and he sits down heavily to get them in the air.

The star chart that's opened on the HUD is centered on Suarbi.

He stares at it for a long moment, at the confirmation that she wants to go there next, that this is ending. He wasn't ever going to ask her to stay; how could he? He has nothing to offer. And so her further presence is only prolonging this uncomfortable squeezing feeling in his stomach.

He needs her to be gone, she wants to leave—there's no point putting it off further. He nods, enters the coordinates, and gets them in the air.

"Let me look at that," she says quietly once they've broken atmo.

He can guess what she's looking at all too easily. His arm is throbbing with agony.

"It's nothing. I'll tend to it later."

She sighs, looking up for a moment as if trying to summon patience from somewhere.

" _Hey._ " It's not quite a snap, but it's more irritation than he's heard in her voice until now. "You have a _medic_ sitting next to you."

He switches to autopilot—steering manually had been an excuse not to look at her, if he's honest with himself. The long stare he directs at her doesn't make her wilt, only tighten her jaw and look at him expectantly.

 _Take as little damage as possible._ That includes physical damage. It's a significant wound and the use of his right hand is in danger if it infects; not only that, but it will be hard treating it on his own with only the use of his left hand. She can treat it ten times better than he can.

It would be better if she didn't touch him. He's been trying to maintain distance, to not make things harder. And letting her handle his wound will— He doesn't want her to touch his skin again.

_Take as little damage as possible._

He doesn't even need to say it, she reads his capitulation from his sigh and goes to get out his med kit.

She's a different person when she's being a medic. He is fascinated by her matter of fact orders to take off the bracer and his gloves. She cuts open his sleeve until she can reach the wound, which is bleeding sluggishly now the pressure is off of it.

"Hold it here," she murmurs, raising his arm to shoulder height. He does so without complaint, though his shoulder is protesting. She frowns and hinges up the armrest to where he can lean his elbow on it so he's more comfortable.

Her fingers feel cool and her grip around his wrist is matter of fact while she holds him still to put numbing shots all around the wound. The touch still makes him shiver a little. He is hyper aware of how her fingers feel on his skin and of her presence standing next to him.

She takes a long time and works in far more detail than he could, or would, have. It's kind of torture to Din. It doesn't much hurt because of the numbing shots. He has far too much awareness available for the way her fingers wrap around his wrist, the care with which she works on layer after layer of his muscles and skin tissue, the intense focus in her eyes. She moves around his side to get a better angle now and then, her elbow brushing his shoulder, or the side of her knee brushing against his thigh.

He doesn't know what to _do_ with the warm swell of—of _something_ in his chest. He already likes her more than he should, but this might be closer to admiration, or respect for her competence.

He says nothing.

She cleans and wraps his arm once she's done, and takes the kit over to the table without meeting his eyes.

He glances back to the HUD. Right, Suarbi. All this will be resolved very soon.

He leaves her alone to go clean and change, and spends some time cleaning his armour while he's at it. By tonight his life will be simple again, a straightforward mission to catch bounties, supply the covert, and uphold the Creed.

He still doesn't know what to say to her when they land in Suarbi's main spaceport, but he promised himself that he'd give her the best possible chance at a good life here. It's the only way he can see to leaving her behind without guilt; if he's done everything for her he possibly can, whatever happens from there on out won't be on his conscience. He won't have to think about how she's getting on.

Which means not just shutting the ramp behind her and taking off again, though that's what she's obviously expecting.

"So, uh, thanks for everything," she says awkwardly when he comes down the ladder into the main compartment. She swings her mostly-empty bag onto her back.

Din doesn't know how to explain this, what he plans on doing but especially why. She might question him about it, ask him why, or try to refuse it. Then things will get even more uncomfortable because he really has no words for any of this. Just the strong urge to make sure she's okay.

He grabs his rifle and strides down the ramp, and after a moment of hesitation, she follows.

He only then remembers that she said something.

"It was the least I could do," he answers. And now he's about to do the most he can do.

He leads her past the first 'guest house' — a dive bar, and the place of business for the local smugglers. A fruitful place for him to go to for information he's looking for somebody, but no place for her. The real guest house is further into the town, close by the cargo bays that dock the big freighters. Their crews frequent this place, as far as he knows. It's about as safe a place as he can think of.

The proprietress doesn't blink at a heavily armed Mandalorian implying that he'll be back to check up on his friend, which only confirms his judgement that she'll be fine here. The grey-haired woman disappears for a moment, and he passes Yala a pouch with credits.

It's generous—more generous than is really sensible for him to be when he's still at least a standard month from getting paid again himself. But he doesn't care, there's no lack of work and he'll be fine, and thankfully she doesn't check or question the amount.

Then the proprietress returns with Yala's room key, and suddenly there's just—no reason to stay, to prolong this. Even though he finds he wants to. He wants to suggest sharing a meal, even though he won't eat. Sitting by the fire with a drink. Stretching this just a little bit longer.

"Well, I guess this is…" she plays with the room key, and for a moment he thinks she might suggest it, that drink. Wishes she would, that she'd give him the excuse. But no, it would only prolong the inevitable.

And she does not ask.

He needs to leave.

"Thank you," he says suddenly. She frowns at him, and he clarifies, "for this morning." he raises his injured arm a little. She really did some amazing work on that.

"Oh! Well that's my work," she says with what's maybe a relieved chuckle. "If you ever decide you need an onboard medic, well—you know where to find me," she says lightly, the tension gone. It's like she's suddenly remembered how to say goodbye to people she crewed with for a while. Which, he supposes, he is, though he doesn't like that thought at all.

She smiles. "Take care, and stay safe."

"I mean—" _not just for the arm,_ "you—it's… _yes_ ," he says, discarding half a dozen thoughts and finally just settling on her last sentiment. "You too."

He couldn't explain why even if a Mudhorn was charging at him, but he steps in, settles his hand on the nape of her neck, and guides her into the gentlest of kov'nyn, his helmeted forehead meeting her bare one for a moment. She seems to understand its significance, because she sighs, her eyes closing, and sinks into it. When he disengages slowly, hand slipping off her neck, she surprises a huff of laughter out of him by following, rising up on her toes for a light forehead knock. He doesn't know if she's aware of the meaning of this for Mandalorians, or intuited it, but he feels hopelessly endeared by her and her pleased grin.

He looks at her for a moment longer, and he hopes he will soon be glad that he met her, even if the yawning unease in his chest is currently regretful of it. There's just this… wash of fondness he can't quite swallow.

He has to go, he _needs_ to go, so he forces himself into motion. Can't quite resist a last reaching out, a last touch, lightly under her chin, and walks out without a backward look.

He'd intended to stay the night in the bay at the spaceport and get some fresh food and supplies in the morning, but by the time he remembers that he's already breaking atmo. No, staying a moment longer would have been bad. The temptation to try to run into her—

No.

Better this way.

No more attachments.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It shouldn't be possible, that six years later the sight of her still punches him in the gut this way. Like some small, quiet part of him has been looking for her all this time, seeking her eyes in every face he sees. There's a strange sort of relieved recognition to seeing her, like that part of him says 'Oh, there she is' and then once again goes quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Tyellas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyellas) and Baar-ur for stuntreading and helping me make this better than it would otherwise have been.

_Six years later_

Din has felt an intense relief since Alor told him he's the kid's _buir_ now, that they're a clan. He can stop fighting the tug at his heart every time the kid looks at him. It's fine. He can care. He should care. He's _meant_ to care.

And care he will, with all he is and all he'll ever be, and for all his years. It is a debt he owes as a foundling, and more so, a debt he owes to the child to make up for selling him over to the Imps. Even if his own life is only a blip on the child's childhood, he will do his utmost to make it better than what came before it.

After Nevarro he's taken some time to actually recover from the head trauma and can once again look down and then up without feeling the world spin around him…

He's not really sure where to even start looking for the kid's family or people. He has to be circumspect to avoid drawing attention to the kid's presence. Din takes a couple of jobs; Karga has reinstituted him with the Guild, though he should probably not show his faceplate to any of his fellow guild members for a while.

He's taken to calling the kid Ad'ika, but he's begun to wonder if it is up to him to name his foundling. They don't usually come to the Mandalorians this young; he doesn't know of any foundling who didn't already know their own name, which they are encouraged to keep. What if Ad'ika already has a name? The kid can't tell him, and the longer they have been a Clan, the more Din starts to feel he should.

Perhaps Kuiil'ika? The Ugnaught did save them both several times over, both in person and via his recreation of IG-11.

It keeps surprising him how you meet people when you travel with a baby. People who'd normally avoid his attention speak to him now, in markets and bars and shops. It's usually not hard to find somebody he can pay to look after the kid for an afternoon while he works, but it makes him deeply anxious. Even without the risk of somebody somehow knowing the Imps are looking for the kid, what happens to him if something happens to Din? He's good at what he does, but he's not invulnerable, and the thought of the kid left with whoever just signed up for an afternoon of babysitting…

He doesn't want to think about it.

A couple jobs later he slides sideways into a bodyguard job, and discovers that while it's lower risk, this _really_ doesn't work if you've got a baby to take care of. He feels like a monster when he comes back to the ship to find the little one exhausted and raw-throated from crying. This isn't working. He needs to figure something out.

Din resolved the problem temporarily when he ran into an older Mandalorian, down on his luck. Drijak joined him on a job or two, and then, admitting his eyesight wasn't really up to the work Din does, offered to look after the kid during jobs. It was a good arrangement, and not just for Ad'ika.

Din is aware he only ever got a limited insight into Mandalorian culture, growing up in a fighting corps. The old man knew Mandalore as it was, was born in the culture and raised a family in it. The time they'd spent with him had been worth it for the parenting advice alone.

Drijak had also been more liberal with his helmet, and they talked about that, too. About what being Mandalorian means, about what the Creed actually demands of them, and what interpretation is given to that by various factions of the people. Din… has some things to think about.

Drijak was never going to stay with them long term, but even for the few weeks the arrangement had lasted, Din had realised how much _easier_ everything was with two people looking after a baby. And how the constant anxiety over the kid's safety had been eased by having another reliable person around to keep an eye on him while he did jobs.

Cara had made it abundantly clear that she was available for the incidental Imperial-whacking job, not for long term baby-raising duty—especially since those duties might well last a human lifetime.

And he doesn't have anybody else he could ask.

No, that's not true. He does know _somebody_ he could ask. She did seem to suggest that she would be his on-board medic if he asked.. Though he was never sure how serious that had been.

Yala.

It's been six years since he dropped her off on Suarbi, and he's only allowed himself to dwell on her when he's in his bunk, in need of release.

He wonders how she would react if he turned up now to ask her to accompany him and the kid on their travels.

He'd briefly been on Suarbi three years ago for a job, and had still been debating whether or not to try to find her when he'd discovered that there had been enforcers from Silken coming, hoping to take revenge on her. Rather than seek her out, Din had solved that problem in very permanent fashion and decided that had to be enough. What good would talking to her do? It had taken months to forget about her after that first time, months until he no longer felt alone on his own ship, months until she was the vague, pleasant memory he'd needed her to be. It hadn't seemed worth to upend all that just because he happened to visit her planet.

Now though.

Now there was actually a reason to seek her out. She was the only person he could think of who he'd trust and who might be willing to take the situation, take him helmet and all, take the strange green baby that was now his son, for who and what they were.

That was no small thing. The kid had begun to use—well, the only thing Din could call it was telepathy, even though that felt absurd. It wasn't subtle, thankfully, nothing to the point where he felt manipulated. He'd get an image or a sensation he was aware that was not his own. A flash of a hopping frog had been the first one he recognised as a clear sign the kid was hungry. There were a few basic others; a cup for thirsty, the sound of the vacutube flush when he needed the 'fresher, the sensation of splashed water on his face when the kid wanted to swim in water they encountered, or failing that, take a splashy 'bath' in the little sink aboard ship.

The more vague ones he was still working on understanding. It had taken more than a week before he'd figured out that the image of being handed a grenade-sized silver ball stood for something like acceptance-content, apparently based on the moment he'd handed the kid the little ball from the handle of the ship's dashboard.

"I think you'd like her," he tells the kid, nestled comfortably on his lap, as he stares at the star map. "She'd probably pull you around on the mudhorn."

The kid cooes inquiringly. Din has no idea how much Basic he really understands. His development seems impossible to map to what little he knows about human development, and Drijak had agreed it was a puzzle. He's toilet-trained, providing you're paying attention to the signals. Din's not sure how he would be handling this parenting thing if that hadn't been the case. One moment he seems capable of fairly advanced understanding, if not speech; he'd seemed to understand that Kuill was dead and wouldn't be coming back, cooing sadly when Din had told him the whole story of how the old Ugnaught had helped them and rescued them many times over.

The next moment the kid seems genuinely surprised and distressed that his stuffed toy is on the floor after, surprise, he threw it out himself. Judging by Drijak's laconic 'Yes, well done, gravity still works' comments, that is in fact normal baby behaviour.

Din is waiting for him to start picking things up with his powers and pulling them toward himself. It seems a logical extension of his abilities, and it's going to be terrifying because the Razor Crest is full of things a baby shouldn't be putting into his mouth. Babyproofing so _far_ has only involved keeping anything dangerous up above knee height.

Shortly after Nevarro they'd gone to buy a new floating bassinet, which while expensive, is the most practical place for the kid to sleep, safely protected from any rough motions of the ship. It also makes it easier if Din takes him anywhere. It isn't always practical to carry him, and while Din is vaguely aware that walking is probably good for the little guy, it's so slow that he can't always wait for that.

He'd found a hover bassinet. They had also, to his eventual regret, paused at a stall with toys, the kind of carved wooden toy a young kid might pull along on a string. One of the toys had been given the rough shape of a Mudhorn, with wheels instead of legs. Din had seen varieties of this kind of toy on more planets than he could remember, shaped as all kinds of animals. He even remembered seeing it in his own childhood.

The wooden Mudhorn was approximately the right size for a small green baby to ride. Ad'ika had thrown such a tantrum, even to the point of trying to use his powers, that Din had felt little choice but to buy it.

Which now presented the issue that a Mandalorian who would like to be taken seriously as a warrior, and not put his people to shame, could not be seen in public towing along a tiny green child on a pull-toy mudhorn. Which was to his regret, because the little guy loved riding on the thing with wholehearted abandon and cried for it every time Din took him in his hover bassinet instead. Sometimes Din set down the Razor Crest well outside civilisation just so he could pull him a couple of laps.

He tries to put Yala into the picture. Her pulling the baby on his toy. Din pacing them, more likely to be assumed their bodyguard than part of their… family unit. That would be enough.

Would she want that, helping him take care of the kid? What little she'd told him about her life, she'd grown up as the eldest child in a family of long-haul spacers, part of a loose-knit community that traded and transported along the Hydian Way. She'd had parents and siblings and a relatively stable extended crew-family life. She'd sounded wistful, and he wonders if it's something she wants for herself, a family like that.

No, he shouldn't be thinking about that. Shouldn't fantasise about how he'd like—no. She'd said she would consider crewing with him as on-board medic. He could use a medic aboard if she's willing to help him care for the child. Any further or other expectations need to be firmly stowed away; he cannot ask her to fly with him on the Razor Crest with the underlying expectation that they will pick up their—their _intimacies_ where they left off.

Hells, for all he knows she'll have a family by now, she could have a five year old and a toddler and a babe in arms.

He feels like an asshole for hoping she doesn't.

"Well, we gotta start searching for your people somewhere, huh?" he sighs finally. "Might as well do it in that sector."

The kid babbles something Din chooses to interpret as approval of this plan. He enters the coordinates with a mix of relief and trepidation.

"I'm sorry sir, company policy prevents me from giving any information about who we have on the payroll."

The woman in the office at Stellar Shipping doesn't look sorry at all; she looks afraid and like she's expecting him to get violent any second. Din lets out a deep sigh. It doesn't surprise him, that it's not as simple as he'd hoped. It's been six years, Yala could be on another planet, in another region, on a ship traversing the Hydian Way end to end and back—fuck, she could be anywhere, or she could be dead.

He nods to the woman and leaves. What else can he do? Maybe this is a sign that he should give up the thought of having her back on the ship with him. Maybe that was always a pipedream. He should head back. Ad'ika is asleep on the ship—or causing havoc, but it's only been an hour, so hopefully still asleep. Din stops at a market stall to pick up some of the sweet crunchy bread they make here, and a basket of berries he knows the kid will like.

What else can he do? Well. He _is_ a bounty hunter. He knows where to start asking.

Luckily the guesthouse still has the same proprietress as six years ago. Yes, she remembers him, and the girl he came with. Lovely girl, stayed a couple of days, didn't she sign on with a ship on the Llanic Spice Run? No, the proprietress hasn't seen her since.

Din talks to some of the ship crew that's in the common room.

"A medic?" one of them asks, glancing at the others.

"Yes. Human, about this tall," he indicates a height of about reaching his own chin, "light brown skin, brown eyes, very curly hair. In her mid thirties now, I think. Grew up as a spacer. Yala."

Some of them do claim to remember that she signed on with Stellar Shipping, but didn't she take off for the D'Aelgoth sector? No, Kuat, another is certain. Somebody else is sure she stayed on one of the planets on the Stellar freight route, but doesn't remember where. Somebody else suggests that she jumped to a ship doing the Corellian Run years ago.

They're obviously lying—and not even particularly trying to be subtle about it—but he says nothing, only thanks them for their help before he takes the kid and heads back to the Razor Crest.

By the time he gets aboard, his mood has lightened. Contrary to his initial sense of hopelessness, this is actually good news. Several of these people clearly not only know Yala, but they're lying on her behalf, trying to throw a bounty hunter—what they think is a bounty hunter—off her scent. Which means that, first, she is likely both still in the vicinity, in fact very likely to be working on one of the Stellar Shipping freighters, and second: she has people looking out for her.

"That's good news," he tells the kid, who chortles and shakes the stuffed frog that has a little bell in it.

The largest of the three Stellar ships, _Tranquility,_ is scheduled to land in the morning. He'll try the guesthouse again tomorrow night. If nothing else, enough lies usually form a pattern he can use.

The pre-dawn arrival of the enormous freighter wakes up anybody but the most determined sleeper in a 5 klick radius, and the spaceport comes to life as every available worker, droid and vehicle is deployed to handle its cargo.

Figuring that if he goes near there, the assumption that he's a bounty hunter looking for one of their own might well cause a disruption, Din stays in his own bay and does repairs. The bay door is locked, it's safe enough for the kid to wander around here, and if nothing else, a couple of days on Suarbi give him the chance to knock out a dozen nagging jobs on the Razor Crest's repair list.

He's crawled awkwardly half under the ship to weld a patch over a plate connection when he hears the jingling of the little frog bells. Which is impossible—the plasma torch is noisy so the helmet is muffling all sound to protect his ears. Which means the kid is projecting.

Din still isn't sure if it's always deliberate; some of it is clearly a form of communication, but sometimes it's perhaps more… overflow of emotions. Which is concerning if the little guy ever develops a temper.

He turns off the torch and gets himself out from under the ship and upright, the visor, hearing and air filters on his helmet adjusting now the plasma torch is no longer right in front of his face.

His eyes go unerringly toward where Ad'ika is, which is by the outer wall of the bay, standing in front of—

It shouldn't be possible, that six years later the sight of her still punches him in the gut this way. Like some small, quiet part of him has been looking for her all this time, seeking her eyes in every face he sees. There's a strange sort of relieved recognition to seeing her, like that part of him says 'Oh, _there_ she is' and then once again goes quiet.

He slowly walks toward where his.. his son, is babbling at Yala.

She's sitting cross-legged on the ground, still clad in a crew uniform. Her hair is longer than it was, a cloud of wild spirally curls that move whenever she moves her head. She's—she's looking at him, something in her face he's not sure he understands. She tips back her head to keep looking as he comes close.

Din belatedly realises he's still wearing the 10-layer reinforced welding gloves that wouldn't let him feel a direct hit of the torch, let alone human touch, and pulls them off. Her eyes flick to the gloves and then to the ground, and he wonders why she's suddenly shy.

That's for later consideration. He offers his hand, but must pull her up a little too forcefully, because she almost stumbles into him. Din's hand on her shoulder steadies het, and then they're—she's so close, and looking up, and his bare fingertips are on the warm, bare skin of her nape, and.

Her forehead meets his helmet so gently, so naturally, that he has to remind himself that she hasn't said that she'll come, that she might not say yes.

"Yala. You look well." He hasn't spoken her name aloud in six years. Even he can hear the pleasure in his own voice. He straightens up and lets his hand slip away from her shoulder.

"Thanks! You too," she chuckles, doing that thing he remembers from saying goodbye to her—tension suddenly pivoting into joviality. She even raps her knuckles on his beskar chestplate, oddly Cara-like for a moment. "Big upgrade."

The kid makes a trilling noise, and they both look down to be met with outstretched arms, an obvious demand to be picked up. Din settles him in the crook of his elbow and gets a pleased little purr for his trouble.

"First time you've been back here, thought you'd drop in on me?" Yala chatters as the three of them walk toward the ship. She's stealing little glances at the kid, but he remembers her tendency to avoid questions; seems like she's waiting for him to explain.

"I was here three years ago, but I think you were offworld," he says, leading the way into the ship. He installs the kid on the table. Yala is still standing at the top of the ramp when he turns back to her.

He has to—he just needs to say it. Why he's here. She can't say yes if he doesn't actually ask her.

"You said—when we said goodbye, you—" he takes a deep breath and then turns away to take a cup of berries out of the fridge and give it to the kid, who purrs happily and stuffs berries into his mouth.

When he looks back, she's still standing there, outlined by the hatch opening. He's trying not to draw conclusions from her reluctance to enter. Perhaps he ought to.. To offer her something. Hospitality. It's the vaguest of memories, of his mother always offering something to a guest.

He pours a cup of water and sets it down on the side of the table that's closest to her, gesturing at it in invitation. He deliberately doesn't watch her while she decides if to come in. He picks up a couple of tools and puts them away. Finally he sits down at the table, catching a stray berry and putting it back in the kid's cup.

Yala is still by the ramp. Fuck, he needs to—

"You said that if I ever—had need of an onboard medic…" he lets that trail for a second. "I know you have a life here on Suarbi now, but he could—" he glances at the child, which is staring at him intently, and Din remembers that while he wants her to know what he values the skills she could contribute, he needs to make it clear that _he_ wants her aboard. "— _we_ would…"

He trails off when she moves, steps forward and carefully sits down on the fold-down seat. She gives him a steady look while she picks up the cup and takes a deliberate drink.

He has to remind himself that it's not actually an answer, but at least she's here, she's come into his ship. If he presents his invitation well, if Ad'ika is his charming little self—

Maybe.

"All right," she finally says, putting down the cup. "I'm listening."

He tells her _everything_. It's the longest he's ever spoken, that he can remember, and he's tired by the end of it. She doesn't interrupt, only asks questions when he stalls.

"So you're a clan now, he's your son," she finally concludes, "but you have to search for his people to give him back?"

Straight to the painful heart of the matter.

"It could be next month," he nods wearily. "Or it could be never."

"That sounds… difficult."

He can only nod.

She hums, and then the kid turns to her with an inquiring coo.

"Hey little guy. How are you feeling about this, huh? Want some more company besides your dad?"

Din feels a weird, hot lurch in his stomach at being referred to like that, and so casually, and most of all by her. Like it's… like it's just normal. Like he's really the kid's father now.

The kid waddles across the table to stand right in front of her, and she moves her cup aside to make space, until they're face to face, no more than a hand length apart. Ad'ika investigates her, first looking, then lightly touching her face with his little hand. Din realises that the kid is curious about her face because he rarely sees any faces up close, and Din has no idea what he is feeling.

He's been thinking, lately. About helmets. About the Creed. About if the people who wrote the Creed could truly have meant that you're not supposed to show your face to your young children.

Yala for her part smiles and returns the gesture, tracing the kid's features with a light fingertip. She follows the line of his brow outward to the tip of his ear, and her face goes soft as the kid purrs and leans into her touch.

"I think that's a yes," Din says.

The kid presses a berry to Yala's lips, which she—after a quick glance at the container—accepts.

"All right," she finally says.

"All right?"

"All right, I'll come fly with you," she nods, easy like this is not a decision he's hoped for since the moment he realised he could ask her.

"That's—I'm glad to hear it."

"I have some conditions."

He's less glad to hear _that_ , but she's not an unreasonable person, is she? He gestures for her to state them.

"If this arrangement between us comes to an end, you either get me back here, or you get me to a suitable spaceport with enough credits for passage back here."

Reasonable, if practically difficult. He has no idea where they're going, and it might end up being a very substantial amount of credits. He can't deny the sense of it though; she is putting herself into a vulnerable position by flying with him as his crew, without a source of income independent from him. And she spent years of her life trapped on a planet because she was denied access to a spaceport.

"Agreed," he says, "I would never leave you stranded. Though it might be… might be hard. I—" his face heats with shame, but she deserves to know what she's getting into. Depending on where they would be at the time, it could be 'selling a pauldron' levels hard. "What with." he nods his head at the kid, "I haven't be able to take many jobs."

And certainly nothing high-paying, because that means high-risk and he can't. He can't risk not coming back to the kid.

Yala nods thoughtfully, seeming satisfied with his intent.

"It'll be easier with me there to help look after him, right? And if we're going to rural places, I often do some local mediccing. Doesn't usually pay in credits, but it gets food on the table."

She launches into a story of how the _Tranquility_ crew ate amazing roast beef for three days straight after she'd pulled somebody's impacted tooth, and Din just watches her, smiling.

 _I've missed you_ , he wants to say, but doesn't.

"What are the other conditions?" he finally asks, because she's gone off track.

"Oh, that we don't leave until we've built an actual bed for me, because I'm definitely too old to sleep on a storage shelf—"

Din barks a laugh. The cargo rack space he cleared for her six years ago worked in a pinch, but he's not surprised that she's not down for sleeping like that longer term. If there's gonna be the three of them on the Razor Crest, he needs to do a bit of a reconfiguration. It's fine, he can weld something together.

"—and that you'll let me hang some curtains," she continues brightly. "Including one right here," she indicates where he's sitting, "so that you can eat at the table at the same time as we do."

He's never even thought about that, but if it matters to her—

"Done and done."

She absently strokes Ad'ika's ears and smiles, and Din feels light on the inside. The future doesn't seem so bleak if she's coming with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, done! Thanks for riding that out with me and leaving your lovely comments; I really wasn't sure if the same events from the other POV would be that interesting, so it's been awesome to see that people enjoyed it. 
> 
> Yes, there will be more. I'm already nearly 10k into writing 'the further adventures of'. I recommend subscribing to the [series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584163) so you don't miss anything.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feedback your writer, it means a lot!


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